


Father's Day

by ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kid Fic, Mentions death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not his first Father’s Day without his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> This can be read as a stand-alone, but for those of you following Winter's Child, this takes place around the same time as "You'll Love Tomorrow."

It’s not his first Father’s Day without Jack. 

That day passed years ago, only a few months after the boy’s death, and Lestrade can’t recall very much of it. There had been so many firsts without Jack in the months following his death - Christmas, birthdays, end of one school year, beginning of another - that by the time that particular day rolled around, Lestrade had been too numb to acknowledge it. He remembers, vaguely, crawling into bed and sleeping for two days straight, waking only twice, both times with Cheryl’s arms around him and her comforting voice in his ear. It hadn’t mattered; his boy was still dead.

And so Lestrade isn’t sure at first what to make of the wave of melancholy that sweeps through him now, on this seventh Father’s Day without his son. It’s an ache that slips deep into his bones and settles heavily on his chest, and for a while he can hardly breathe with the intensity of it. After a moment, however, Lestrade allows himself to acknowledge the fact that perhaps it has something to do with the baby he’s rocking gently in his arms; the child who is now nearly the same age as Jack was on that first Father’s Day. 

“Hey, Cally,” Lestrade murmurs as his godson blinks blearily up at him, waking from his nap. He had fallen asleep in Lestrade’s arms over an hour before, and Lestrade has been holding him since, because it isn’t often that he’s afforded the luxury of cradling a baby and Calvin Jack is growing too quickly. Lestrade won’t be able to do this for much longer. He takes advantage of it whenever he can, stealing moments with his godson on his lunch breaks from the Yard or on days like this, when John and Sherlock have invited him over for dinner and when there is still time yet before the meal.

Calvin rubs his eye with one tiny fist and then gives a great yawn. Lestrade grins down at him, and asks, “Did you have a good sleep?”

The baby _snuffles_ and closes his eyes once more, rubbing his cheek against Lestrade’s shirt as he settles deeper into his godfather’s arms. Drawn by the noise of his son waking, Sherlock pokes his head around the corner and holds up a baby bottle in silent question. Lestrade shakes his head. 

“Nah, he’s already fallen asleep again.”

Sherlock nods and withdraws back to the kitchen, where he’s helping John prepare dinner. Lestrade turns his attention back to Calvin. 

“Your dad’s a funny one, innit he, Cally?” he says quietly to the baby as John’s sharp _No, you can’t use that pot, you boiled a head in it two days ago!_ carries out into the living room.  “Dunno quite what to make of him sometimes. Did Aunt Molly tell you about the time she watched him flog a corpse in the morgue? Ah, well, you’ll hear about that one soon enough, I’m sure. And someday I’ll have to tell you about the scorpions he once sneaked into my flat.”

Lestrade settles back into the rocking chair, carefully adjusting his grip on Calvin and rearranging the blanket he had wrapped around the child. “But he’s a good man. Learned that the hard way, all of us did, some years back. And he loves you. I don’t think he’s quite figured that out yet, but he does. Perhaps even more than he does your papa, and that’s sayin’ something. He’d die for John, Cally, but he’d _live_ for you.”

There is a sudden _crash_ from the kitchen that Calvin mercifully sleeps through. It is followed by a moment of tremendous silence - and then John starts to laugh. Lestrade hears Sherlock join in a moment later, and smiles to himself. 

“And your papa’s incredible, Cal,” he continues. “What he’s been through with your dad - and without him - is astounding. He’s been in battle. He’s been gravely wounded. He’s faced off with murderers and been to some gruesome crime scenes. And the only time I’ve ever seen him come even close to crying was on the day you were born. He’s a soldier and a doctor, and _you_ brought him to his knees.

“They adore you,” Lestrade says, his voice cracking around the last word. “And so... And so you need to be very good to them, all right?” He presses a kiss to Calvin’s forehead, his stubble rasping against the soft flesh. The baby stirs but doesn’t wake. “You need to stay safe and strong and - and healthy. Because if -”

Lestrade stops and finds that he can’t go on. The unspeakable has stuck in the back of his throat, and he can’t compel himself to say the words. He tries to banish the thought altogether, but then Jack floats across his mind. It’s not the image Lestrade wants to remember - that of Jack at two and three years old, inexplicably happy as he delights in the world around him. Rather, it’s the one that, against Lestrade’s will, his mind conjures more often than not when he thinks of his son -  that of Jack on that last day, five years old and a shell of his former self, his face bloodless and his body confined to a hospital bed he would never leave.

“It would destroy them,” Lestrade murmurs finally. “Utterly and completely. They’d never be right again, Cally. I know. And I can’t -”

He inhales sharply, through his nose, as though by the sheer force of it alone he can hold onto his composure. “I can’t lose you, little one. And I can’t lose your dad. So be well, yeah? Do that for me. Please.”

No, it’s not his first Father’s Day without Jack, Lestrade thinks as he runs the back of his finger down Calvin’s cheek, the movement mirroring the path of the solitary tear that slides down his own. But it won’t be his last, either. 


End file.
